


Ten Thousand Suns

by calisonne



Category: Original Work
Genre: Camp Nanowrimo, Multi, NaNoWriMo, Original Fiction, Original Universe, POV Multiple, Science Fiction, hi this is a tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 21:44:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1957164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calisonne/pseuds/calisonne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That is all the Kvat have ever known, nights that were as bright as days, the stars in their skies ever moving; they knew it was beautiful, and they also know that it is nearing an end. Fearing the darkness, the universe is their primary goal - to seek the answers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. >_

>Station log: Ch'risk'kr'lo  
>Officer: Buk'kuras'gas, Mag'ransi   
>Log type: report  
>Date: four thousand, three hundred and fifty second rotation, Co'sta'pas

>Begin log

This will be the final log of Ch'risk'kr'lo. We have been ordered to return home, for the sakes of us, and the children we may bear. The great collision of galaxies is almost upon us, and despite this being, from the calculations, the most likely planet to reproduce a successful life from the seeding, the lives of myself and my peers are more valuable than our continued studies, a statement in which I agree; if this planet survives, against what we believe from our simulations, as we predict it will not, although it has been noted on many occasions that odds can be beaten, I will not live long enough to see any form of life above the fauna, perhaps the first beast Animalia. Thus, my life has concluded its purposes, a shame as this successful seeding took so long to find within this vast expanse of suns, and we have only had the short time of fifty home rotations to study this glorious world, so it will be home that I will go, to the nest to produce my offspring. My descendants, perhaps, if the galaxies are kind in their joining, will come back here and see the children of the Earth, reborn, whatever form they may take.  
It is my duty, until the way home arrives, to make a conclusion of my findings. This planet, as I noted, a likely successful seeding, was the last that the beast-humans seeded. Here, they lived out their last days as simpler beings than their great advancements, and it is here that they died – it is interesting that in those last days, the beast-humans reverted to their primal instincts, a fact we know for the artwork we have found carved into twenty three stone faces, depicting contests of a friendly, yet aggressive in nature, competition and conquests of exploration of the world still alight in the embers of the first age – they of course could be stories, but the beast-humans were half beast, and the planet was pure. They could only leave their bodies to rot in the ground, by their rulings. Even the beasts had rules. If we make it to the levels of the beasts in our time, though granted the only reason the humans took the forms of beasts, according to the legend, was to maintain a corporeal form, to stop the fading, I will be proud of my people. We do not know where the humans went, or what the fading was, but we know that human kind set the bar high, and even if that height is taller than we can ever reach, in them, we are eternally grateful.  
Even if this opportunity is cut short, I am honoured to have had the chance to see the final resting place of six beast-humans, and their legacy of stonework, however true it may be. The beasts in question we have successfully identified as, in the human tongue, spider, zebra, goat, fish, snake and a bird, though they are mostly human in the flesh, this we know from the old tales. The stone art indicates that they lived in two groups, not out of hate, but of some form of entertainment, the spider, bird and snake uniting to form one unit, the trio that secured the most victories, if the tally marks are anything to go by. My favourite is the spider. If the drawings are accurate, in all their detail, then he was truly beautiful.   
I am rambling. I should not ramble. We have powered down the station, bar the primary functions that we need to live, and record this log, until we leave; final preparations are being made, in terms of packing our belongings to leave the station as nothing but an empty shell, a shell of void once we leave and the programmed sensors put the primary systems to a long sleep – a sleep that may last forever. I do not wish for this. I wish that we could take this world, capture it in some kind of protective bubble, and take it to a new place to watch it grow. But then we would have to take the full system, to make sure that the hard work the beast-humans did in the seeding remains. We do not know enough to counteract the smallest of changes that we would accidentally make, if we had the technology that human kind of Earth had, and lost, this would be an option, but it is not. With a change of the tiniest magnitude, we do not know what kind of creature we would unleash from the depths of the cooling world below – we want humans, not beasts, so we must hope, for this world and the others, as we shelter against the merging, hope for human kind to rise again.

>End log_


	2. I

The light in the sky was bright, shining in all its intensity to not only illuminate but warm the sands below, rising the temperature of the endless day to the standards of the first sun. The sun was bright, and he was squinting into it; the sun served to remind the desert of true warmth now that it had claimed the land back from the cooler third sun, as it did every first segment, slowly spinning what it now proudly owned away and back towards the second sun, which was currently hidden behind the first, sleeping until its time came again – in this time, the first sun had won its conquest, ruling what lay below it unchallenged, bar the light breeze that was not even strong enough to disturb the sand, which he was grateful for, as the open sides and top of the bru'm would leave him free for the sand to attack – and sand stung. Moving, however, generated an extra movement of air, one strong enough to cool his face that did not affect the sand that could hurt him, another thing to be thankful for, as even accustomed to the climate of the bi season, the empty expanses of the desert has known to be deadly, and he had already found himself with his throat dry, begging for water that he did not have; he had chided himself for that instantly, but he could not afford to demand that his driver turn back to locate a retailer that would sell him water; it would not be hard to find a locate that met this need, and he would gladly pay the driver for his extra fuel, but he did not own the time to spend, for he was already skittering along the boundary. For a man of his position, it was a foolish scenario to put himself in, but the suns had not been in his favour, with he had outlived his planned stay on his formal trip to the southern landmass of Jenassu, through no fault of his own, but the nyoo’m system, faulting in one of the tunnels between two of the stations and refusing to even bring light to the passengers, most of them, much to his rotten luck, had been lighter skinned folk who upon realising that they had become trapped, started to panic. The reality was, it was a simple fault correctable within less than a segment, but the panic had increased the wait to three, so he missed his transport back to Hajkaa and had too book another, requiring more waiting time, returning to find a sandstone trapped in his vroo’m, another simple fault, but the half day he had lost did not grant him, or rather his father, the head of the company for the clikash variant of the bru'm, any time to correct it; he had been rather short with the man who sired him for not taking care of his vehicle while he had been away, but that had been an unfair accusation, for they did not live in the same town, and his father accepting to house sit for his rather vocal, and fluffy, calikari was kind of the man, considering his dislike for the animals. Nevertheless, he had been forced to call a hired driver- a hired driver who had the sense to wear eye-shields. Lynoss scolded himself for that too, yet he did not have to look into the suns light being a passenger, but he was too familiar with doing so the motion of looking away from the direction of travel was foreign to him. The driver, only a shade lighter than him in skin at the most, was also wearing a loose fitting cloth, held up by several thin straps across his arms and shoulders, leaving vast areas of skin exposed to the cooling breeze; he, on the other hand, had changed into his work attire, whilst still white in the majority, was much thicker and tighter in material, clinging to his skin through the stickiness of his own sweat. In hindsight, he would have changed upon his arrival, for now he would need to clean himself somewhat – if he had any spare time at all. He found himself gazing upon the driver in a mild form of envy, still forwards, but he was not blinding himself in the rising light.   
“I’ve never had the pleasure of visiting the Arc,” the driver beamed at him, deciding the positioning of his passengers gaze was the prompt to start up a conversation after what had seemed an age of silence. Lynoss did not know much about hired drivers, but he it made sense to him that they would naturally be quite the talkative types; perhaps the most aware people too, able to pick up on snippets of information from all kinds of people – he though, had no intention of giving anything important away, as easy as it was for the tongue to slip.  
“You’ll g-get close enough-h to see it.” He replied, finding that his voice refused to form certain words due to the roughness of his throat. He raised a hand to rub his neck.  
“Well I’d have thought a high ranking member would have a private parking permit right in the shadow of the building,” the driver shrugged quickly, and then suddenly caught himself, leaning down to reach for a bottle of water, which he immediately passed to his passenger, “I should be addressing you by rank, my apologises, commagos…it just passed over my head.” He was hesitating, waiting to be given the information that would correct his statement from being rude, which is was without a name added to the title.  
“Commagos Lynoss Byos’Kaa.” Lynoss granted him the chance to redeem himself, the water presented to him making the choice any easy one. He unscrewed the lid, as fast as he could with his sweat drenched coated palm, raising the liquid to his lips and letting the fluid pour into his mouth and sooth his throat.   
“Commagos Lynoss Byos’Kaa.” The driver repeated with a firm nod, “I should have realised, with the uniform, but it just didn’t, and then it clicked, but it didn’t because I saw the rank cloth, and then my eyes had a delayed reaction to let me know it was tyrian purple. If you don’t mind my asking, are you one of them going up?” A little more prying of a question; Lynoss pried the bottle from his lips, setting it down in his lap, fingers settling over the opening; it was not a private affair, in face the launch of a craft into the vast unknown was a highly anticipated event, though he had not been very publicly named. Most of the focus was on the little craft, which in all honesty frightened him somewhat, and the man chosen to command the mission, that being Marqgos Arasjon Len'Kaa, a seasoned officer, seasoned for the reason that he alone had been out into the skies; only an orbit of the planet, but it was more experience than anyone else had. It was a small comfort, but Lyross would freely admit that he was strongly bonded with his nerves at this time, as though the chances, from the simulations, that the launch would be successful were in his favour, there was always the outside chance of a disaster. Not all of the empty experimental vessels had made it out of the atmosphere, and even if the faults that caused those failures had been corrected, they could not have identified every possible fault – but he would die instantaneously.   
“I am yes.” It would do it no harm to admit it. The public would come to recognise him soon enough, whether it was due to his death, or his success to reach his destination. He should not fear the chance of death. Death did not mean the end; they knew nothing of death, and had no rights to call it an end – yet the tales said that death was glory, a higher plain of existence, even if it meant not seeing the ones you treasured again – until their own death, and then reunification, for infinity. He wasn't sure what he believed, but death was not an option.   
“The ladies will fall at your feet when you return,” Lynoss was not sure he wanted the ladies to fall at his feet. He wanted respect, but somehow, the idea of choosing his bonding partners was daunting. He was of the age to be on the hunt, but browsing his possible selection he had not – he doubted he had even been looked upon by the females of his age in their ideals for selection; the man he had hired to drive him may have given him his answer to that problem, as given more options by fame, it would be easier to decide on two suitable females, “so, Commagos Lyross Byos'Kaa, do you have any theories to what it is? The spiral?” The driver pressed. Their journey was only in the first stretch; the Arc was a building in solitude, meaning the last section of the journey would be as desolate as the first, with his only sight being a distant shadow, although perhaps a trick of the light – if it was the city that marked the end of the first part of the journey, the journey had gone quickly, although he had decided that if that was the case it was down to his own distraction in his own thoughts and work on the tablet on his lap rather than watching the bru'm carve its path into the warm golden landscape. He wondered if the driver had attempted to engage him in conversation previously and received no reply, a possibility. Maybe he had even drifted off to sleep, for the sound of the artificial wind that allowed the hull of the vehicle to make such a clean cut in the ground was such a calming sound, and if he had not, and the haze was a trick of the light, he should. The day was to be long.  
“Honestly, I don't know. It seems to be artificial.” He admitted, casting his eyes back toward the haze on the horizon. It did not seem to be getting closer, “perhaps the suns fashioned it as some kind of guardian, or perhaps some kind of other form of life, which would mean we're not alone. But you would have heard that all already, not secrets to reveal, I'm afraid,” the driver sighed audibly. None of those words had been his own – in truth, Lynoss was not in the category of the smart folk, knowing only a variance of words for his education and social class. He did not quite know what the sky spiral even was, but that his outstanding abilities as a weapons officer counted him in in the exploration of its identity. He just listened to those who knew, and repeated, like a song bird, and occasionally, he could replace some words with more complex ones, when he remembered. The driver was opening his mouth to reply, but Lynoss did not feel like conversation, “what time is it?”  
“We are about a quarter of the way into the second segment, sir,” the driver replied quickly, understanding the shift in his passenger's tone, “as you requested, we'll stop when we reach the capital city and you can do what you wanted to do while I get the rest that you promised me before we set off again.” He would only need a few hours there, and those were hours he could not cut away from his schedule to make his arrival on the other side of the country more rapid – the driver did need sleep, and he had his refined blades to collect from the finest forge on Svosca.  
“I'm going to sleep.” Lynoss announced, rather suddenly that he was quite surprised at how the words fell from his mouth, “not a word about this to anyone, and if you wake me up as we approach our first stop, I'll consider letting you take me into the shadow of the Arc when we finally reach it, do we have a deal?”   
“Deal.” The driver grinned at him with a lopsided smile, extending his hand towards him. Lynoss could feel as slight jolt as the machine likely veered, by a tiny amount, of course, but that could be corrected. He extended his own hand, interlocking his thumb with the driver to create the pact. He tapped his fingers against the tips of the fingers of the other man, sealing his agreement and then pulling away, not bothering to check if the driver was correcting the minor change in direction, a trust he was automatically placing in the man. This driver was a professional. Instead, he twisted, pushing his luggage backwards to use as a pillow; not the comfiest of places to rest his head, but it would serve as an opportunity to replenish his energy for the endless day. He let the gentle humming of the wind put him to sleep.  
-  
The shrine was old, as old as the bones of Svosca; built for his god in the times of old, preserved through the ages by the line of Nijuusar, a responsibility that he also partially bore. His elder brother would take the position of caretaker of the shrine when his father passed on into the realm of the gods, but if his brother should fail or pass along without mature children to take upon the role of Drohsyo's chief servant, the job would become his and he would gladly take it, if the grassland god decided that his brother was unworthy and wished for the services of Vyboch Niju'Mar in his shrine – he was a servant, now, and always. He was crouched now, before the aged statue of his master, a man with a muscled body decorated in dark stripes, only clothed in a thin white cloth that barely covered his genitalia, and a belt; the statue of the god was equipped with a b'rac, two decorated weighted balls attached together by a rope, in his hand, long hair bound into segments as it tumbled down his back; this hair Vyboch mimicked, the sides of his hair shaven and dark, the dirty blonde at the top of his head pulled back into the cascading tail, his own b'rac in his belt. He had mastered the b'rac before he was two suns old. Loyalty was proven by becoming the image of his god. Somewhere Drohsyo was smiling upon him.   
“It is time for you to go.” His father. Vyboch let his eyes flutter open, lifting his head from where it was bowed, gracefully sliding his resting leg upwards from the knee so he could stand. His father could only mean one thing; Vyboch's primary craft was engineering, a job he had aspired to as soon as he had heard of the spiral in the sky, four long suns ago, in a time when he had just finished his compulsory education and found himself unable to see the path of his destiny. Engineering was a simple pathway, harnessing the skills Drohsyo had bestowed upon him, a sign that the sky spiral was the path meant for him, to reach the palace of the gods, for that was the only thing the sky spiral could be. It was a palace that he found appeared in his dreams, a vision he had taken as a sign that Drohyso was waiting for him. It had to be himself, for if it was not, why would Drohsyo craft him in such a way that all but the colour of his hair and the stripes, which no kvat wore, was of the typing of his master's chosen form? It would be so soon that he met his god and accepted the work that would be set upon him, “do not die so far from home,” his father touched his shoulder as he rose; Vyboch stiffened slightly at his father's statement, his elegant ascension becoming flawed.  
“Die, father? Drohsyo has summoned me,” he frowned, feeling his brow furrow. He moved his head to meet his father's gaze, but could not find it, for his father was looking away.  
“Dreams are not all that they seem. It may be a warning, Vyboch. You are born of the grass, and you should die of the grass. That is the natural cycle of the world, my son.” His father's hand slipped from his shoulder, running down his arm and down to the b'rac, pausing to feel the surface of the weapon, a weapon that he too had made his own, “Drohsyo gave you the talent to wield his weapon, I tell myself that he must have made you for some grand destiny, and perhaps in the sky spiral you will achieve glory for our master; but I ask you, as a father, do not die so far from home.” Vyboch scowled, quite visibly, for his father was treating him like a child; Vyboch knew the way of the world, for he was seven suns of age, not far from the middle of his lifespan of fifteen suns had he been born of the desert and believed in the false gods that were the three suns, but he did not, and the end of his lifespan would be when Drohsyo wished it so. Under Drohsyo, Vyboch could live to be old, wrinkled skin and weak boned, a liberty the false religeon did not provide. Vyboch knew all of that, and more; he should tell his father that, but his father silenced him before he could speak with the single motion of turning sharply and walking away, leaving Vyboch in the grand hall, with only the sound of the echo of a closing door to accompany him, for a moment, and then that was gone too, leaving him alone. He could not truly reassure his father, for if he expended his uses, Drohsyo's choice to put him down was not one that could be contented, unless one of the other five divines stood to oppose – but Vyboch was a servant of Drohsyo; the other deities would have no interest in a his mortality or his soul, unless Marrlya or Thearia wished to act in his stead, and although he would be wary to serve a master that was not his own, Marrlya and Thearia were the consorts of Drohsyo, his trusted allies against Brakuu and his single mate in the great competitions that spanned the early ages, the wins of which did not favour his master. The god with many eyes and his feathered goddess were gods of deceit and shadows, Vyboch had decided were better labels than their titles of marsh and woodlands, and if his god or his consorts wished to re-spark that rivalry, he would gladly play his part; but there was no way to know what the gods had in store for him until he followed the path that was now so clearly illuminated before him.  
It would take him two days to reach the launch site from the Brosmar docks, only a single stop away by nyoo'm; the nyoo'm system and the vroo'm, across the water, would be the only transport he needed, with the point that the transportation to the sky spiral, a skyu'm as they had been named to follow the pattern that included the bru'm, was leaving from being on the coast of the great desert landmass of Hajkaa, which Vyboch appreciated, and not for the amount of money he would have to put in, seeing as his posting at just the Arc itself granted him more money than most, and this investigative trip would allow him to earn an extra helping of riynes, though he received his salary in vargs, the currency of Hajkaa and did have to convert it to the southern riyne, to cover the expenses; in truth, Vyboch's people were not used to seeing the money that he now possessed, even in the fact that it was less than he should be earning for a man of his position, but he did not know what to do with the money he had and would be receiving, more would be of no use to him. It would be sensible to put it into the community – Drohsyo would like that. He would do that when he returned, which would be when most of his payment was presented to him, ensuring that the bank lost as little money as possible from any unsuccessful endeavours, which made sense in their preservation, but not in the preservation of others, he had concluded that a long time ago; yet rulers would be rulers, as the gods would be gods. In order to preserve their power, the bank was greedy, but it was the gods who would punish them when Svosca was able to hold itself together alone. Vyboch would have to impress of two fronts, to his master, and the bank, but there was no doubt in his mind which one he would choose to give success if asked to betray the wishes of the other. Money was money, it bought the delights of life, but he did not need delights – he did not need money for Drohsyo to preserve him, his master only needed his loyalty, and for now, that was to follow the dreams, which meant bidding goodbye to the shrine and collecting his bag from where it sat by his exit, long steps away. He composed himself, pushed his tail of hair from his shoulder to his back, and strode away from the statue, only feeling the sense that his destiny was about to begin when he felt this fingers close around the straps of his bag – and oddly, he felt the urge to stop and cast his head over his shoulder, gazing once more at the figure of his master as if it would be a final parting. The real Drohsyo was waiting for me, he told himself, and tugged himself away – the nyoo'm would not wait for him, and he had yet to walk to the station and descend down into the tunnels that would no doubt be packed on a warm day like today with mostly families and young children wishing to visit the coast, of which was Thearias's realm of power. Vyboch was glad that he had already reserved his place on the underground, although he was not pleased that his prediction of the day being warm had been corrected, for warm days usually meant that the desert god was in control. If it was warm here, he hated to imagine how hot it was in the desert. Hot enough for his skin to burn, no doubt, though in the Arc, he would be safe from the rays of the sun, and he knew they had an air cooling system, because he had fixed it himself on more than one occasion. Whether or not they would turn it on was another matter entirely; the desert folk were not very sympathetic to the lack of heat tolerance of their southern companions. But he would gladly suffer, for Drohsyo would not approve of the weak. All the hard times in life were tests of character, to determine ones place in death. His father had always said that his character was tenacious, and he would prove that, to anyone who dared to challenge him.  
-  
The metalwork was colder than Lynoss imaged it would have been, for a weapon almost straight out of the forge. The pair of his thin pair of k'chos had handles moulded to his fingers; light, airy, but deadly. It was the left k'chos that was the most dangerous, for people tended to watch him dance with his right more than the left, which waited in the shadows to strike. It had been that tactic that gave him his first kill, at the ceremony of ascension, almost three suns ago now, where he had been pitted against a rather slim a'xosh wielder. The other boy had had the advantage in strength, for his height allowed him to swing his heavy weapon around with the power to cleave Lynoss in two. Lynoss had only survived with his ability to move, despite his more stocky build, although that was less so now, as the metabolism of the desert folk did not allow for more than an athletic build, and trickery, and had almost lost several limbs to the boy who discovered that his own frustration was his worst enemy when his strikes had become more violent and the swings had been more wide; Lynoss could clearly recall slipping through the boy's guard and pushing his left k'chos through his windpipe – and that had been the end of the boy he did not remember the name of. His mother had wailed. Lynoss had smiled, thrusting his bloodied weapon into the sky.  
“How does it feel?” The forge master, Tyrless Moch'Kaa, a desert born like him, as denoted by the last part of his name, questioned, carefully observing his client. Lynoss would have preferred to give the pair of thin metal blades several loose swings to get a feel of how they moved through air before he made his comment, but that may be judged as undignified in place like this – yet there was only one way to find out, and all Tyrless Moch'Kaa could do would ask him to refrain from repeating his actions in the future. He did it, spinning on his heel as he twisted both of the k'chos about his body, aiming to land with both curved across his chest – except the right one did not make it there, finding itself clasped tightly in the palm of the forge master – blood of a bright hue of red welling from the tightness of his grip, “not in my forge.”  
“I'm testing my weaponry. I'm paying you for the best, so I want the best.” Lynoss fired back instantly, excluding the shock from his voice, levelling his left blade at Tyrless Moch'Kaa's neck.   
“And are they?” Tyrless Moch'Kaa demanded a reply, tugging the k'chos in his grip so that Lynoss stumbled forwards, left weapon almost touching the dark flesh of his neck.  
“No,” Lynoss replied. In truth, as perfectly sculpted as they were in appearance, they did not carve the air in the way he was used to, the ends heavy and dragging down his swipe; it was a minor difference, that he could learn to live with, but if this man was going to challenge him, he would not quiver. If it was out of place because of the class, then Tyrless Moch'Kaa should have spoken to him softly rather than initiate a challenge, of which attacking the higher class was, in any form, “but I will take them all the same.” He sharply dropped the left from the throat, the fine point of the side piercing the knuckles of the forge master, and true to the finery of his reputation, it cut clean as confirmed with the chime of the two k'chos meeting. He pulled them away together, raised one arm across his chest to signal his authority. He could have killed that man for challenging him, the law dictated, and had not, for he wanted the first kill he made with his new friends to be something glorious, and it was bad enough to have them taste their blood on a forge master who despite his reputation, clearly had no respect for those above him. Besides, the screaming, from either pain of shock, or a combination of both, was satisfying. He stood for a moment, arm still held across his chest, as Tyrless Moch'Kaa dropped to his knees, undamaged hand wrapped around the stubs of the fingers of his others, expression one of horror as he cat his eyes upon the sight of his digits laying upon the floor with no connection to his body. He did not expect me to do it, Lynoss mused, but he does not know me. There was no lasting threat from this man; he could banish him from his forge, which he would most likely do, but he could not speak out against him, for even if he lied about the incident, Lynoss had the advantage of his class – and the truth. Lynoss would put blood on his k'chos for liars, his last pair of blades was drenched in that blood – from minor bleeds, as he had only ever been responsible for one execution beside his day of ascension to adulthood; killing was sweet, but it was not always the best way, as it was not now – yet he remained unsatisfied. He too looked down upon the severed fingers, the idea coming to him that this man should have those fingers denied from him forever, so he approached, rested his k'chos on the floor and cut through the fingers, once, twice, three times, until they were tiny fragments, the forge master watching helplessly. Lynoss looked him straight in the eye, and then decided it was safe to turn his back to the man and make his way back across the town with blood dripping from his blades.


	3. II

The breeze was cool by the sea, a spray of chilled air mixed with tiny water molecules that the wind had ripped up from the large body of water that was all that Kaejas could see from the balcony from which he was perched upon the edge of, fingers brushing over the bar that was intended to keep him on the side without any danger; the fall, from this height, would certainly not be enough to kill him, but could shatter a bone, and somehow, even in his risk, aware that his safety was a simple snatch away. He was not here to test his integrity – but was trying to lower himself closer to the figures below, without notifying them of his positioning, in order for his ears to pick up more strands of information than he was currently receiving. Kaejas had always fancied himself as a spy, being of quite a wiry build with flexibility and the ability to fit through small spaces, both of which he could admit to honing as a child in his desires of fulfilling his fantasy; it was the former of these skills that would come in more handy in his short descent, slipping along the thin ledge to the wall, where he placed an open palm for a grip, and dropped his left leg, an action that would have strained the muscle if it was not well trained, reaching his foot out the single uneven stone in his descent path, testing the strength, and then slowly lowering his weight onto it, leaving his right leg awkwardly propped on the edge of the balcony. From here, he had to swing the abandoned leg down and across his body in a swift and fluid motion that resulted, only if done perfectly, in a foothold in the corner of the balcony rim below; once secured, Kaejas could shuffle himself across the wall, leaving his left astray, three limbs firmly clinging to the brickwork as he moved, slackening only slightly when he slowed to rest, leaning the bulk of his body against the wall, face resting against the rough brick.  
“Here,” the voice of Marqgos Arasjon Len'Kaa announced the return of its owner. From what Kaejas had been able to make out up on his own balcony, a visitor had arrived to see the confirmed leader of the mission to the orbiting spiral, who had led his guest out into the open, where Kaejas' curiosity had been ignited, and then left them alone to retrieve some kind of refreshments – most likely drinks; in that time, as the voices had been muffled noises, Kaejas had begun his descent, “I think you know why you're here.”  
“You've chosen me to join the team?” The reply of a female was instantaneous. The rather high-pitched sound belonged to Hjalaa Skre'Ffot, a commagos by rank, one below Arasjon Len'Kaa and one above himself; she was a specialist in the art of combat, as Arasjon Len'Kaa was, and the other commagos that had been chosen to represent the second in command – to Kaejas, that suggested that perhaps there was more to this venture than what he knew, that it was some kind of dangerous quest, and quests of risk of harm were never undertook without a prize of treasure and glory to be bestowed upon the victor. Those kinds of riches sounded wonderful to him.  
“Mhm. I could use someone like you. My second in command is a little inexperienced.” Arasjon Len'Kaa continued. The second in command of the mission was to be Commagos Lynoss Byos'Kaa, that much had been announced to the group of potentials like Kaejas; there was to be eight in this final team, including the leader and second in command, which left six slots to be decided by Arasjon Len'Kaa himself and revealed to them all in the great hall of the Arc the night before the launch. If Hjalaa Skre'Ffot was a choice Arasjon Len'Kaa was certain in, five spaces remained on the team, and even then, one of Kaejas' fellow engineers, a white man with lightly tanned skin, was convinced that he was going due to what Kaejas understood was for religious reasons. He did not know as much of the beast-gods, which came with being born in the vast desert of Hjakaa where the religion of the white people was frowned upon and the information limited – but from what he knew, Kaejas considered the concept of them to be interesting, more so than the gods his people had once heavily believed in. The religious white man, whom Kaejas could not quite remember the name of, was quite a solitary kvat, and Kaejas had not encountered him for more than a few brief instances.  
“I would be honoured,” Hjalaa Skre'Ffot replied, smile audible in her voice, followed by a short period of silence, and “am I your first selection of the final six, may I ask?”  
“No, although you are, this much is true, the first I have notified and thus the first I am certain in.” Arasjon Len'Kaa replied hesitantly, not through lack of confidence, but the tone of his voice suggested he was thinking over his thoughts. Kaejas had learnt nothing new as of yet, as his reasons for being here, eavesdropping, was for spotting the seasoned Marqgos working through his team sheet rather visibly on a main display positioned next to the window in his office – Hjalaa Skre'Ffot's profile had been highlighted amongst the vast security files listed. He had waited a short while, hoping the engineering tab would be selected, and then left, deciding that his presence would have likely been noted if he had hovered about for any longer period of time, as it was said that if one watched another for long enough the person in question would become very much aware of it, something Kaejas had tested several times as a child, and confirmed. He was one of sixty-one engineers; the chances were low, which only fuelled his desperation. But as time went on, Kaejas had convinced himself, if there truly was something grand in the sky, then they would need more engineers – but he still desired to be first, which was no crime. He had heard mutterings from too colleges in the storage bay before his last sleep cycle, of some grand plan to eliminate the engineer they had heard was definitely going via provocation, if they could; he did not need to guess what the end result would be – murder. Murder, where the victim had no idea of the weapon against his back, held no honour. It was not clever to defeat the system, it was cowardice to kill another without looking them in the eye, so to speak, though murder was possible delivered from the front, and all the same, it was the act of a coward who was too afraid to stand against their victim; as challenging went, the only crime was to initiate a challenge without any insult to defend, but if the winner of that skirmish was the one who created the brawl, then their word was victorious against the dead, whom had no voice. But as Kaejas saw it, the only reason to want to harm someone was because of insult, and he supposed being smarter or boasting constantly of one’s intelligence was an insult. But if it was murder the pair in the storage area wanted to participate in, he had no intention to be involved, and left, quietly and unseen, before he found out who the intended victim was.   
“Your words continue to honour me,” Hjalaa Skre'Ffot spoke softly. She was a humble one, surprisingly achieving so much without a powerful desire to reach the heights of success, from what he knew of her, which was little. He liked the think that he was a good at deducing people from little information, but he had been wrong before. Kaejas himself had achieved his one better than the lowest position from talent, but he was young – at four suns and three subsuns, only at the beginning of his career after finishing his extra sun of education, he had time, “may I know who I could be working with?” That was what he had been waiting for. It had taken Kaejas a while, a short while, but a while all the same, to convince himself to eavesdrop on this conversation, as even with the higher possibility of bad news than good, knowing now would give him a chance to prepare his public reaction; anything extreme, and the cameras would no doubt focus on him when the results were announced worldwide, read out by Arasjon Len'Kaa as he stood on his platform in the great hall, flanked by his second in command, Lynoss Byos'Kaa, staring impassively onwards until Hjalaa Skre'Ffot joined him on that platform, where he would, Kaejas presumed, perform a greeting bond as Arasjon Len'Kaa continued on with the grand reveal. He was presuming because this was the first event of this kind, so his ideas were based on the expeditions of the water, which were not of times that old. The sea was vast, perhaps as vast as the sky. He held his breath, hoping the name Kaejas Hros'Kaa was on Arasjon Len'Kaa's lips.  
“I've decided on the white girl in science for a position, Adjugos Jenska Kra'Jran. She has quite impressive biological credentials.” Arasjon Len'Kaa offered up a name, equal in tone to when Hjalaa Skre'Ffot questioned her own position. Kaejas did not know who the white girl in science was. He knew that clinging to the outside of the Arc residential block becoming increasingly painful, and if he remained in this position for much longer it would be quite difficult to push himself back up to his own balcony without falling, and injury would rule him out, especially if it was a fractured limb. He curled his fingers round, hoping to improve his grip by a slight amount; as he did so, his dangling foot lost its light attachment to the wall, and Kaejas had to scramble to quickly replace it, moving his stance on that foot to be gripping by the heel than the toes – Kaejas felt his adrenaline level shoot up, heartbeat audible in his ears, “and then the white engineer with the long blonde hair. Though, I'm not sure.”  
“Not sure?” Hjalaa Skre'Ffot returned quickly. However unsure Arasjon Len'Kaa was, Kaejas had a feeling that the religious engineer would be chosen, which would mean the man would not be disappointed in his convinced state of mind on his position; it was likely that very thing that was the root of Kaejas' feeling the other engineer would be successful, yet a small part of him desired it not to be true, for of the commanding officer of this mission may not need of any more than a single engineer. Three places remained – unless the man of his department that believed in the beast gods was the one the two fellow engineers in the storage bay had worked out had been selected and successfully eliminated him without suspicion.  
“Two white people. This was our discovery and our work. White people have not contributed much to our world.” Kaejas could hear the slight hostility in Arasjon Len'Kaa's voice, and suppressed a wince; technologically deprived, the white population of Svosca had had little opportunity to shine. It was more than an unfair judgement. The skin around his left horn was itching. He shifted position to give it a light rub, “there could be a public uproar if I favour them to our own kind.”  
“If you have considered them, they must be the best of the batch. The best is the best, and we want success – the public wants success, which is given by the best, in whatever form, even if it talks of a god of grass that looked like it had some kind of skin disease,” there was a pause, “was that racist?” Kaejas nodded, but she could not see.  
“I am firm in mind that I want the team to consist of two engineers, two science specialists and four guard folk,, perhaps two of the weapons specialists having an overlap with one of the other two fields,” Arasjon Len'Kaa avoided her question, “the only other I am firm in choice with, besides yourself, is the other engineer to the one I mentioned I was slightly unsure on, but that is my own decision to make.” This was it. Kaejas held his breath, a long breath until Arasjon Len'Kaa spoke again, “but I think you may know who I am referring to – shall we go inside?”  
“I think I may yes, I've heard the talking, if that is anything to go by. I wouldn't mind going inside, as it is getting a little breezy,” Hjalaa Skre'Ffot denied him his information with a string of words; “I did not style my hair for wind.”   
“I thought you were looking slightly uncomfortable, though it was slightly amusing to watch.” Arasjon Len'Kaa's tone changed for the first time, amusement lacing the edge of his voice.   
“I would scold you for finding a woman in distress amusing, if you were not my superior.” Hjalaa Skre'Ffot's tone was soft and playful – and slightly more distant, suggesting she was moving away from his position. Kaejas felt his head drop, as he had apparently removed it from the brickwork and attempted to crane his neck closer to the voices, connecting with the wall and lightly skimming across it, a slightly painful sensation, but he made no attempt to move his forehead. An utterly pointless quest, unless finding out he still had a one in sixty chance of getting on the team was considered a win for him. The only positive that he could come up with was that now he could move from his precarious pose, the way that seemed easiest was to temporarily put himself in more pain and stress as he removed a hand to tug the k'tsh, a long leather length of material that was his weapon of choice, grasp the handle and throw it upwards, the end finding the higher bricks and recoiling; Kaejas had to duck away from the impact. He went for it again, this time the weapon hitting his balcony and wrapping itself around the bottom of the barrier with the impact – he gave it a sharp tug to confirm the hold, and then began to use it as a rope, scaling the wall with a much better ease than the descent despite his tired arms, dropping over the barrier and resting for a moment before he unattached the makeshift rope; it was in times like these that Kaejas was grateful he had chosen to work with a k'tsh of a long length, a choice originally made as he wanted a weapon longer than he was, as it gave him a safety net of being able to attack from a longer distance than bladed weapons, which most of the population seemed to favour, and even if metal could cut a k'tsh, it was worth that risk, for time and a precise cut was needed, which he planned never to allow. It was true that in his own ceremony to adulthood that the length of his weapon had been in his favour, reaching out and snatching his opponent, able to drag him about and weaken him enough that eventually he had allowed Kaejas to seize him by the neck and choke him – it was not pretty, but it was the only way to become a man from a boy, or a woman from a girl.   
He coiled his k'tsh, clipping the ends together and sliding it back onto his belt. He was not sure how disappointed he should be, considering he still had a chance – he had not heard any of the talking that Hjalaa Skre'Ffot had claimed to have been witness too, which suggested to him that he was going to remain at the Arc when the skyu'm took flight in four cycles of the first sun. Of all people, Kaejas firmly believed that he deserved to go; he had made an effort not only to master his field of electronics and computer engineering, but study the languages of the south, even while the only language permitted to speak at the Arc was hjakaan. He somehow felt bitter resentment, a desire to find the religious engineer and congratulate him with a snide comment, provided he had arrived yet, as the announcement was not until tomorrow, but that was rude, and the last thing anyone of white skin needed was a darker kvat such as himself demeaning them for simply achieving. He reined it in, forcing his hand through his almost black locks and exhaling. Perhaps he did not know of the rumours because they were about him – that would make sense; people had a fondness for whispering about others behind the back of those concerned. He smiled, who didn't take a languages expert to an object that could be manned by aliens or gods? A lavish bowl of popop fruits would be an excellent celebration. He collected his key from the table, strolling across his room to the internal exit, head held high, letting himself out into the corridor. The communal dining hall was one floor below, so he took the right after locking his room and took the stairs at a gentle walk, pausing part way down as his sensory organs detected a creek, quiet, but there all the same; he dismissed it as nothing, continuing his mission for food by reaching the bottom of the stairwell, passing by Arasjon Len'Kaa's room without a sparing it a glance. It was when he entered the dining room, oddly empty, that he could feel the eyes on the back of his head, and if he had spun around any slower, he feared he would have no longer have a head; the curved throwing blade glanced his face as he turned, he felt it run across his eyebrow before it dropped harmlessly onto the carpet – oddly, Kaejas felt nothing on his face, nor his own hand pull out his k'tsh, instinctively throwing it out with the sound that it was named for, followed by the crack of the leather making contact. There was a short yelp, but by then Kaejas was half-blind, spinning away as something sliced the air beside his three ridged ear. A different direction Quick, or is there two? He heard his k'tsh make contact with something else.   
“Stay still and well make this quick!” Make what quick? His serious maiming? His death? He followed the voice, found a shadow and gave his weapon another swing, and heard something heavier than his k'tsh collide with something heavy.  
“We don't want to kill you, but if you keep moving, there might be an accident!” A second voice, Kaejas recognised it as one from the storage room. He almost laughed aloud. He had worked with these men over the past three subsuns; he should have known from the looks he caught when he was explaining his ideas. They were older than he was, and then along he came, fresh from his additional education, waltzing in and outclassing them by becoming their superior in less than two subsuns – he almost felt sorry for them.  
“And you call an attempt to put a throwing w'chos in the back of my head not deadly?” He returned, blinking away his blood. His forehead was beginning to hurt now, but a dulled pain rather than anything sharp. He could only see one of them, the tall one, the male, picking himself up from a pile of toppled chairs – the short one, the female, the more vocal one, was behind him in his blind spot. He has the circular throwing blades, Kaejas recalled, whirling round to face her. She was stood twisting one of the w'chos blades between his fingers now, watching Kaejas' k'tsh move slowly up and down – and then jerk violently upwards as the tall one collided with his back, knocking Kaejas' legs out from underneath him, the pair landing with a thud and a loud grunt from the other man as Kaejas forced the air from his lungs. In his surprise, he did not feel the metal bar being forced at his neck, pulling back his head and restricting his airway; his first instinct was to grab at the pole and attempt to pull it away, but the weakness in his arms would lose him that battle. He pushed panic aside, forcing his elbow into the taller one's chin, missing and hitting the bend of the horn, which would have been as equally painful, and his foot sharply between his legs, more than enough to loosen the grip. He grabbed hold of the bar then, gripping the metal with a single hand, so he could free his neck, swung his other fist at the face, gulped down the air and threw the bar backwards with his remaining strength, meeting the lower leg bones of the shorter one that was met with a shout. He raised his k'tsh, raising himself, placing a boot with light pressure on the tall one's throat. “You wanted to murder me when I overheard you. I congratulate you on having the courage to challenge me, or was that an accident? But really, what were you going to do when I was gone? Fight to the death? Marqgos Arasjon Len'Kaa is not going to take too engineers of the same class. Only one of you can go in my place, if any of you, and I doubt being involved in two deaths puts you in good standing.” The short one was wincing slightly, teeth gritted and w'chos raised to match Kaejas' threat, “maybe the pair of you can kill me, though I doubt both of you will make it,” he added, for all he needed to do was apply his full weight to the windpipe of the tall one and that would be one assassin somewhat disposed of, though Kaejas was not the best at weapon wielding, he rated his chances, yet the blood on his hands would not do well for him either.  
“I'm doing this for Obelish,” the female said slowly, voice lower, but still coated thickly in venom.   
“Then I suggest you lower that w'chos,” Kaejas returned. The male below his foot seemed to be her mate, something he had not picked up on during their time together. He applied a slight more of additional pressure upon his neck, not enough to seriously damage, but it made the other man cough.  
“Enough!” The female spat, throwing down her weapon with a force that it bounced before settling to rest; Kaejas mirrored her in the lowering, but did not release his hand from the grip, “you win. He worked so hard for suns before you showed your gnarled horned face and snatched it all away! Congratulations you condescending piece of calikari faeces!” The comment rebuked him. He took a deep breath.  
“If there truly is something up there, we'll need more engineers. The spare skyu'm, they'll send more of you. I could have recommended you.” The man, Obelish, was coughing more violently now, hands wrapped around his boot.  
“Stop it! Stop!” The female screamed. Kaejas could not do it. He withdrew his foot, retreating to the distance of a table to learn back on.  
“Get out.” He gave the order, short and sharp. The female collected her weapon quickly, rushing forwards to help her mate to her feet and whisk him away. It was when he was on his own that his head began to whirl, and Kaejas had to spin himself around to face the table. How much blood had he lost? Was he seriously damaged, or was he struggling this much simply because it was his head? His arms were shaking now, but he raised one to his face, pressing it against the wound that he could now most definitely feel. It stung, stung so much that he made his pain known; despite it being a public area, if nobody had been alerted by the shouting, a cry of pain was going to summon a soul, yet he needed to move along, but to where? He needed treatment, and for that, he would need to approach Arasjon Len'Kaa or one of the two commagos at the Arc for them to call him medical attention, but then it would be known that he had been involved in an altercation and may be deemed too damaged and replaced. Kaejas could tell from the way he was beginning to lose focus that if he did not seek immediate help he would be more than too damaged to resume anything more than light duty on the launch date. He thanked the adrenaline for holding the effects of a head wound back until he had won, moving his decision to stagger away from the table and into the door frame of the dining hall. Jenska Kra'Jran, he remembered, credited for her biological skills. Scientists were on the third floor. The stairs loomed before him, a sudden mountain of ridges, and without the hand rail, Kaejas was sure it would have been game over until someone found him sprawled out on the floor, which would happen anyway if he was not careful in his sense of urgency, each movement of his hand on the rail kept in best time with the movement of his legs, making it up to the second floor with only one minor slip; the ascent to the third floor was harder, and he had to stop to rest his head against the wall, and then quickly snap himself back into action from his sudden tiredness, and then when he staggered onto the landing of the third floor, he had to read the names of the owners of the rooms, stopping to take in what each said, and eventually, fourteen rooms down, hammering at the door. He was slumped against it when it opened; falling against a woman with dark coppery hair pulled up to one side of her head.  
“Hey! My gods, what happened?” It was almost a demand. Kaejas did his best to recover, arm still plastered to his forehead.  
“Just...no report. Help me and I can help you. I-I can get you on the team.”


End file.
